Beads

In a mountain hut
the hermit murmurs
“Om Mane Padme Hum”

on smooth worn mala beads.

I've been whispering
“Hail Mary, full of grace”
on my rosary for
half an hour, half a lifetime.
Calling for a lover, the cricket
rubs his legs together
all afternoon, all evening.

The chocolate-brown poodle
keeps gnawing 
his flavorless marrow bone.
Cloudy morning, raindrops
caress the thirsty soil
after a torpid August,

while the gray-haired lady  

crochets a baby blanket

for her great granddaughter

who is not yet born.

None of us are in a hurry.

None of us knows anything

about tomorrow.

What we pray for

is never as important

as praying.